Because Everyone Needs a Little JohnLock
by konfessor2u
Summary: This will be a collection of fics, they will usually be short ones, ranging from fluffy to smutty. Who knows? Relationships of all permutations ;) mostly John/Sherlock, but may also include others here and there. Sorry for posting again, the first two chapters will be stories I've already posted but you can follow this to get more updates. Overall rated M just in case.
1. A Moment of Breathless Delight

**So, I know that I've already posted this story and the one in the next chapter, so if you've read them, just skip these two. I just wanted all my JohnLock fics to be in one place so people could follow it accordingly. :) This compilation of JohnLock fics include stories that may or may not be related to each other; they'll usually stand alone. They certainly don't go in any order, just in the order my mind thought up that day. Enjoy and if you have a request, PM me and I'll see what I can do.**

**Rating: K+**

* * *

A Moment of Breathless Delight

I love it when he is like this. It is inexplicably beautiful to watch him. He doesn't pay me any attention when he is in "case mode" and that's just fine. I know that is just how he is. The way his eyes flick back and forth scanning the air in front of him as if it's a screen, is a reminder of just how intelligent he really is. His eyes are always bright, but when he is on to something, they sparkle. They shine. They may even change color a little, his pupils dilating in excitement.

He rattles off words, clues and connections, at an alarming rate, never once getting tongue tied. It amazes me that anyone can think, let alone speak that fast. He is Sherlock after all. I particularly like it when he pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth while thinking quietly in between outbursts.

As he gets closer to the answer, he points enthusiastically to objects in the room and in his mind palace and easily pieces the puzzle together. He calls it observation and logic, nothing more. I tell him almost every day that it is simply amazing. That is why he is the only consulting detective in London. He says to observe and not just to look. However, I find it excruciatingly difficult to evaluate a crime scene or anything at all, when I am so captivated by him.

The best part is when he finally gets it; the climax and spectacular ending to the case. And everyone else in the room gets it because he has finally made us see what he sees. I think I've become addicted to this moment and it's what got me hooked on Sherlock. With those bright, wide and wild eyes he looks to me as he voices the final solution.

It's not that I forget to breathe when he finally turns his attention to me. It's hard to explain how it feels. My first reaction is to take a deep breath. I want to take the deepest breath that my lungs can possibly hold, but my rib cage constricts at the same time. Equal pressure both inwards and outwards leaves me in a weird sort of limbo. I can't breathe in. I can't breathe out. I remain breathless, listening to my own racing pulse, eyes locked on Sherlock's. I can always hear my own heart pounding in my ear, the whoosh of blood insanely loud without an accompanying breath. The adrenaline rushes throughout my body. It spreads everywhere, even to my toes. I can feel the neurotransmitter dilating my blood vessels all over, increasing the blood flow and making me feel tingly. After a short while, all my muscles relax.

If I called it holding my breath, I would say that the next step would be to exhale. But as the wave of tingles pass, I finish the deep breath that I meant to take the first time. I exhale slowly, smiling all the while. Sherlock is smiling too.

Yes, I am addicted to this high, this rush. At times, he may call me ordinary, dull or slow because I may not make the same incredible deductions as he does. he knows why I can't focus. I know that he is too smart and far too observant to not see my reaction when he looks my way. He knows that I am addicted to him.


	2. At the End of the Day

**Again, I apologize for the re-post, I want to compile my JohnLock fics. :) More to come!**

**Rating: T**

* * *

At the End of the Day

Each lift of his leg up the stairs of 221B felt as if there were ten kilogram lead weights attached to each ankle. It was a struggle just to get going again when he paused, swaying lightly on the landing. After the longest day ever at surgery, John was more than looking forward to collapsing face first into the bed sheets. Spending hours on end awake and alert was nothing new to the doctor, living with Sherlock Holmes and all, but a 24-hour shift comprised of many emergency trips with his patients to hospital left John feeling utterly drained.

He pulled his knee up one last time to heave himself into the living room. Blinking his dry, tired eyes, he shuffled to the kitchen to switch off the small light over the stovetop that Sherlock had left on for him. He was slightly surprised that the detective wasn't awake and carrying out his crazy experiments. John smiled fondly, grateful for the peace and quiet and relative lack of body parts strewn about the kitchen. When he turned back to the staircase the feeling of dread settled over him so heavily that it now felt like thirty kilogram weights on each of his legs. He didn't think that he could manage another flight of stairs and quickly decided that he wasn't even going to attempt it.

Carelessly flicking his shoes across the flat, John began the process of unceremoniously shedding all his clothing in the middle of the dark living room, leaving him in just his boxer briefs. One glance at the sofa against the wall brought on phantom neck pain from remembering the last time he spent a night on that couch. He brought a hand up to absently rub the back of his neck, grumbling and blinking, looking around, too tired to move and too tired to think about where to sleep.

Groggily, he finally made his decision and barely picking up his feet at all, he shuffled through the kitchen to Sherlock's bedroom, quietly opening the door just enough to squeeze through and close it behind him. John stood quietly for a moment, listening and watching for any signs that he had woken his flat mate. He hadn't. John had to use the light coming in from the window to move around the end of the bed to the side unoccupied by Sherlock, where he greatly had to resist flopping down onto the mattress as to not wake his friend. As the tired doctor eased himself between the cool, crisp sheet and fluffy duvet, he couldn't stifle a tiny moan of relief, glad to have the full day of pressure off his feet and the muscles in his neck no longer had to hold up his substantially heavy head. He settled in with his back to the detective.

John smiled to himself and inhaled deeply, thinking that the bed smelled pleasantly of Sherlock, a good thought to fall asleep with, when he felt the lighter than light touch of a single finger on his lower back. He held his breath as he rolled over to look at Sherlock, whose dark brow was furrowed in deep concern and question, and his sharp eyes scanning John's features for injury.

John sighed heavily, slowly releasing the breath he was holding. "Was so tired." He mumbled, watching Sherlock carefully. He was waiting to be told to leave and inevitably he'd have to literally drag his arse up the steps or resign to sleeping on the horribly uncomfortable sofa. He had never come to Sherlock's bed in the past before, he was just so tired and it seemed the only logical place for him to go, second only to his own bed. However, he couldn't deny that he was happy here in his flat mate's bed. Sherlock didn't look too upset by it either, but only confused as to why John was there. "Really long day in surgery." He added another explanation for good measure before closing his eyes.

John felt long fingers curl around his hip, drawing him in closer and he didn't fight it, he simply shimmied forward, thankful for Sherlock's warmth and caring. The doctor's head lay nestled tightly against Sherlock's neck beneath his chin. John heaved a sigh of content. Sherlock quietly hummed his agreement and they fell asleep together, wrapped in each other's arms.

* * *

**Cheers! :) Please review!**


	3. The Unlikely Chef

**Rating: K+**

* * *

The Unlikely Chef

The kitchen table was clear. John's eyebrows immediately shot up in curiosity of the simple fact; the table was clean. No body parts, no growing cultures, no dirty glass slides or microscope. In place of all of Sherlock's usual experimental equipment were two maroon place mats set with plates and cutlery. His wide shocked eyes simply narrowed at the sudden change, suspicious that Sherlock was planning something tricky.

John tried to recall the last time he had seen the kitchen table serving its original purpose, but ever since he moved in eight months ago, the surface was constantly littered with papers, slime, grime and other unmentionable substances. To say that he was shocked was an understatement and he stood blinking slowly, taking in the simmering pot on the stove, the used cutting board on the counter top and the strong scent of spices assaulting his nose. He looked around but he was alone in the room.

John pulled his coat off and draped it over the back of his armchair in the living room. When he turned back to the kitchen, Sherlock was there at the stove, stirring the pot of what he could only deduce was chile con carne by the smell of it.

"I didn't know you could cook." John stated with interest, perusing the fridge to find a beer which he opened and took a long sip of.

"It's just chemistry, John," Sherlock retorted sounding a little bit hurt.

John rolled his eyes at the tone of rebuttal and turned to lean against the counter next to the stove, watching his flat mate cook with sincere concentration. The sleeves of Sherlock's signature dark purple shirt were rolled up baring smooth white skin. The shirt and his normal black trousers were accompanied by the most ridiculous apron John had ever seen. On the front of the apron was a cartoon body of an extremely well-muscled man and Sherlock's head was supposed to look like the cartoon man's head. John nearly choked on his beer at the sight of Sherlock wearing something so comical and he was giggling to himself, unable to look away.

John could see the corner of his friend's mouth curl up slightly but his concentration did not break as he reread the last step in the recipe before adding the final tablespoon of spices and stirred as the cookbook said to.

"Sherlock, what's all this about then?" John wasn't going to complain about a home cooked meal even if he knew he wouldn't be comfortable eating it until he saw Sherlock take a bite. Being subject to another of the detective's experiments without knowing was not on his timetable for the night. It was just odd. He had never come home to Sherlock cooking. The man barely ate, let alone made food. And he's certainly never seen the table cleared and set for dinner.

When John received nothing but silence as an answer, he prodded again, "Sherlock?"

At this the tall man looked down at him and stopped stirring the pot. "Can I not cook you a nice meal for when you get home from a long day at work?" Sherlock's tone was light and innocent but John saw a certain gleam in his eye that simply screamed, "I'm up to something".

"No! You wouldn't do this unless you wanted something from me." John just came out and said it. He knew Sherlock and this is not something he would normally do. "What is it?"

"It's done, have a seat John and pass me your plate." John sighed heavily and obeyed. What else could he do? Sherlock heaped his plate with rice and covered it with the chili before setting it in front of him. He also scooped himself food, but considerably less and sat down, still wearing the sexy muscle apron.

John gave him a brief, tight lipped smile, waiting for Sherlock to eat first. He didn't want to be poisoned or anaesthetised for the sake of science. They ate in silence and John found that he quite liked Sherlock's cooking. He was thinking of ways he could bribe him to cook more, when he felt the overwhelming feeling of being watched like a hawk.

"What?" asked John, who tossed his fork onto his plate. He couldn't eat while being studied.

"Nothing." The sparkle of mischief was still there in Sherlock's eyes and it completely invalidated the one word answer.

"Sherlock, this is clearly not 'nothing'! What are you up to? If you wanted something, you could always just ask." He crossed his arms defiantly. He had heard Inspector Lestrade call Sherlock a child many times and John was starting to believe he was right.

"Asking you where my emergency cigarettes were has never worked before. I needed to change my tactics."

John thought that he probably resembled a fish the way his lips pursed like he was going to say something and then fell apart again. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to yell at Sherlock. He sort of felt the need to punch him but at the same time he couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. John wanted to be mad at his flat mate for trying to manipulate him, but he is Sherlock Holmes; John has been manipulated by him ever since the first moment they saw each other in the lab at St. Barts's.

"You're a prat." John picked up his fork and resumed eating, grinning to himself.

Sherlock smiled down into his plate, pushing his food around to make it look like he ate more. _Child indeed,_ thought John.

After they finished, John helped to clean up the kitchen and pack the leftovers in the fridge. Squeezing more washing up liquid onto the scrub brush, he glanced over at Sherlock wiping down the counter.

"You know," John paused until he was sure that Sherlock looked up from his chore. "There are other things you can do to get me to tell you where _they_ are hidden."

The detective raised an eyebrow and his lips parted slightly in surprise before morphing into a mischievous grin.


	4. That Innocuous Throb of Life

**My god! I love anatomy... anatomy is sexy… I think I have a problem. Anyway, thought of this during surgery lectures today. **

**Rating: K+**

* * *

That Innocuous Throb of Life

The first time the two shared the sofa like this was the result of Sherlock being childish and demanding, as always, and poor John trying to stand his ground and not give in. John had been lying on the couch reading when Sherlock declared that he needed to sit in the particular spot currently occupied by his flat mate's head. John put up a fight and claimed he was there first and to be fair, he was. They argued about the importance of Sherlock getting to do whatever he wanted while working up a case, but in the end, even John couldn't deny that his friend's habits during a case were critical to his thought process. He sat up, ready to forfeit the seat and move to his chair, but when Sherlock flopped down beside him, he felt the sudden need to stay put. He couldn't let the man win entirely. So he lay back down, using Sherlock as a pillow, and continued reading, all the while a tiny smirk creeping onto his features. John snickered to himself, thinking of a title for this entry in his blog, _"The Great Compromise."_

The detective sat at the end of the couch with the doctor's head resting in his lap. After that first time in this position, they found that they both quite enjoyed it and they often sought out each other's comfort by sitting like this; John looking up from Sherlock's lap and Sherlock's arm draped heavily across John's chest.

On this particular night, there was no open case and they sat quietly, enjoying the down time, exhausted from the case they had finished the night before. John was surprised that this tiny amount of physical contact between them was enough to calm Sherlock's frantic and ever bored mind. Usually the detective was losing it within 24 hours of finishing a case.

Sherlock rested his chin on a fist, leaning his elbow on the armrest. He was pretending to look forward; pretending to ignore what John was doing to his arm. _What was John doing to his arm?_

The doctor was fascinated by the seemingly thin skin on the inside of Sherlock's pale forearm. He could see muscles, tendons and veins dance fluidly underneath. Deft fingers palpated the muscle bellies of the forearm while John recalled the names of those muscles from years ago in medical school.

"Brachioradialis muscle. Flexor carpi radialis muscle. Palmaris longus muscle." His voice was a whisper, but in the silence of 221B he may as well been shouting. Sherlock regarded him through narrowed eyes, head still looking forward and up.

His administrations shifted from a deeper, massage like touch to a light touch, barely there. With very slight pressure on his fingertips, he traced the blue tinted veins that were slightly raised from the skin. John made a mental note to try and get Sherlock to eat more from now on, but at this moment, his thin body condition allowed John to truly appreciate the anatomy of the human body.

"Cephalic vein. Basilic vein. Radial vein." John hand stopped at his flat mate's wrist. He paused and glanced up to see if he had broken Sherlock's concentration. It was a game now. He could see signs of him cracking and John could tell he was fighting the urge to look down. Turning his attention back to the arm laid across him, he absently thumbed at the tendons on the inside of Sherlock's wrist.

A wicked grin slowly spread across John's face as he wrapped his fingers around the thin wrist to feel the pulse of the radial artery. The doctor was proud that he could play Sherlock at his own game. He felt especially witty since his wrist watch sat on the inside of his arm so he didn't have to obviously shift to see it. Fifteen seconds of silence passed. _80 beats per minute; fast resting rate for Sherlock._

"Gorgeous specimen." John breathed, lifting Sherlock's wrist to his lips to softly kiss the quiet throb under the velvety, pale skin. The feel of that energy against his mouth was divine and when he glanced up to see his friend's face, he noted that he had his full attention now. John didn't fail to notice the outrageous blush creeping up Sherlock's neck, painting his beautiful cheeks.

* * *

**Cheers! Please review and good night!**


	5. Scandalous Text

**Just watched 'A Scandal in Belgravia' again today and this came to mind, hehe. Enjoy!**

**Rating: T**

* * *

It happened when Sherlock, John and Lestrade were bent over a corpse that had recently been extracted from the Thames. Sherlock had received a text message and if it were possible for a text notification to be more offensive than the one that The Woman had set for herself, well, this one was it. This time a man's voice moaned desperately for what had to have been at least 3 seconds.

The detective startled dramatically out of his silent observation of the dead man and nearly stumbled over backwards, standing upright too quickly while fumbling in his pockets for his phone. Before he could get the device out and open the text, the sound played again, Sherlock's normally pale skin flushed bright red. He knew that sound. It had already been catalogued to his memory; his doctor in the peak of passion, putty in his fingers. Not only had he, John and Lestrade heard the phone, but Donovan and Anderson were also standing close by; he really wasn't too fond of them knowing even the slightest details of his sex life.

John could not be more proud of himself, thinking himself very witty, changing Sherlock's text message notification just like The Woman did. He was grinning wildly, still crouched down next to the body with his hand covering his mouth, struggling to hide his glee. He glanced up at Lestrade who was genuinely surprised by the offensive yet extremely sexy text sound even though he had heard it all before. John could see him grinning as well, eyes flicking from one giggling lover to the other, slightly more frustrated one.

Sherlock opened the text.

_Greg is coming over tonight. Hope you are ready. ;)_

_-JW_

The detective's fierce gaze shot up to look directly at John, into John, for a few moments before glancing at Lestrade. Sherlock smiled innocently, put his phone on silent and knelt down next to the body to continue his work. He would deal with John later. Or so he thought.


	6. The 16:23 to London

**Saw a couple cuddling at the bus stop and of course I can't keep this from popping into my head. These boys are always on my mind.**

* * *

John's phone was completely smashed to pieces and now the tiny shards of touch screen were scattered somewhere amongst the gravel of a roughly paved country road. Sherlock neglected to even grab his phone from the table as they ran from the flat with utmost haste to pursue a suspect they'd been tracking for over a month. A tip from a boy in Sherlock's homeless network set them off in the right direction. John was always amazed by their loyalty, but then again, a look at his own behaviour around Sherlock was a reminder that he would do anything for Sherlock. _Anything_.

A London cabbie had reluctantly driven them out to the relatively deserted area where the suspect was last seen. In the end, the middle-aged, heavy weight, balding cab driver couldn't turn down the money from such a long trip but quickly turned tail and left the two behind as soon as they ran off down the road.

With no way to call for a cab back to Baker Street and stuck out in the middle of nowhere, they were left to wait for the next bus, if there was even a next bus to come.

It was biting cold, windy and raining; of course it was raining. The scratched and graffiti-covered Plexiglass walls of the bus stop did nothing to break the gust of wind and rain soaking them and ruffling their hair. Shivering, John had his coat buttoned up tight with his collar up and his hands shoved deep into the pockets. Sherlock, looked unperturbed by the chilly weather, his scarf artfully wrapped around his neck, it's donning a perfected act making him look smartly dressed every time.

The timetable posted said that bus was to come anytime now and John, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet, stuck his head out to look down the road. No bus. He sighed heavily, his breath puffing out in a swirling fog in front of him. The day was a disappointment overall. They didn't catch the perpetrator. And now they had to wait outside in the cold rain for the bus for who knows how long.

"John." The deep thrum of Sherlock's voice always made John shiver and this time was no different. He was unable to stave the visible shudder that ran through his body; he knew Sherlock saw it. John could tell that Sherlock was sorry for the situation they were in, a sentiment that he only showed to him; the rest of the world was not privy to Sherlock's emotions. He didn't turn toward the detective but kept looking forward, his lips a thin, hard line. He was mad, he couldn't deny that, and he just wanted to be home and warm and comfortable. The turmoil of the argument in his head was making him feel guilty; it wasn't Sherlock's fault after all, he shouldn't be mad at him.

Breaking, he took his hands out of his pockets and blew into them and rubbing them together to warm up and turned to look at the other man. "Yeah? Right. It's fine, Sherlock." John thought that would be an appropriate response considering the circumstances. He turned forward again with another peak down the road only to see no sign of a bus.

The immediate warmth at his back told him that Sherlock stepped closer. Very close. What came next thoroughly startled him making him feel like a young colt in the training arena. Sherlock's long fingers traced down his arms from his shoulders to his fingertips and wiggled their way into John's pockets, settling in over John's hands.

Instantly, John's shooting jacket felt like entirely too much fabric for the weather and he itched to take it off of his burning hot skin. He knew his face was an obscenely dark shade of red and wild black curls tickled his ear causing him to tilt his head away.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" John could feel the vibrations of the grumble on the back of his neck and it pleasantly traveled down his spine.

"Why are your hands in my pockets?" The hands resting on his own squeezed lightly before their owner answered.

"You were cold." The response was as Sherlockian as any ever could be; simply stated as if there was no other way to explain it, and the tone implying that it should have been obvious to John.

John rolled his eyes in reply. He tried to remove his hands, as well as his friends, from his pockets but Sherlock wouldn't have it. "Really Sherlock, there's no need to-"

"And I also wouldn't have been able to do this."

"Do what? What do—aaah." Hot lips closed on the shell of John's ear, sucking the flesh causing him to go weak in the knees. Sherlock tightened his arms around him to support him.

"Steady, John." He nipped gently and sucked at the skin just below his flat mate's ear, enjoying the fact that he wasn't being pushed away and that it caused John to gasp quietly and tilt his head to expose more of his neck. The suspect may have slipped away from them today leaving them both tired and irritated, but Sherlock was feeling aroused and insanely bold despite the situation. He often felt like that after an intense chase but this was the first time he ever made a move on John.

"When we get home, I'm going to strip you out of these cold, wet clothes." Sherlock's breath was hot in his ear and John didn't dare turn his face to look at him. Instead, he closed his eyes and dropped his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder, whining quietly. "I'll slowly peel them off your body one by one until you are completely naked in front of me. I'll lay you down near the fire and learn what exactly makes John Watson tremble."

_Doesn't take much, clearly,_ John thought to himself. It was all he could do to keep himself steady. He heard the bus pull up and he mentally thanked the driver for his timely arrival. Without a glance back at Sherlock, John shyly fumbled for change and purchased two single tickets back to London and chose a seat on the isle forcing his flat mate to sit across the aisle, giving him space and time to think.

* * *

**Cheers for reading!**


	7. You're a Bad Man

**Naughty boys are naughty. Enjoy! ;)**

* * *

_We need you here. –SH_

_What for? I've got paperwork up to my neck, Sherlock, for your case no less. I DO have a job you know. –GL_

_It's an emergency. John is in trouble. –SH_

_I'll be there in 10. –GL_

Sherlock's grin was positively sinful as he turned back to the bed and placed the phone on the nightstand, making John feel increasingly nervous despite the light headed feeling of his post orgasmic high. He knew when Sherlock was up to something. His position was already compromised considering he allowed himself to be handcuffed facedown to the bed, hands and feet stretched out to all four corners. John laid panting, recovering from being fucked into the mattress by Sherlock whose long fingers now lightly traced up the back of his legs, drawing out a delicious shiver and leaving goose flesh in their wake.

Sherlock leaned down to whisper in John's ear, his lips brushing the flesh of his earlobe. "I don't have the keys, John."

John looked up into his lover's eyes in surprise. "What? Why would you-?"

"Lestrade is on his way now. He should have a master key to these cuffs. I nicked them off his belt, so they should work."

The easy smile on Sherlock's face did nothing to ease the fear and panic that cut through John's hazy thoughts like a hot knife through butter. He began to pull at his wrists, the now heated metal of the cuffs digging into his skin, not wanting the Detective Inspector to see him in this state. John would never be able to look at him the same way again. This had been Sherlock's plan all along, he was quite sure of it. Humiliation was something that made John rock hard but Lestrade? John groaned loudly and contracted all his limb muscles tugging at the handcuffs to no effect.

The smooth hand on his buttocks calmed him a little and John concentrated on the movement of said hand up his back and down again. "Shhh, quiet John. It's alright. It will all be just fine, I promise you." Sherlock dipped two his fingers into John's ass using his own cum dripping out of it as lubricant eliciting a long, desperate moan while stroking John's prostate.

As quickly as the stimulation was given, Sherlock took it away. John cursed the fact that was getting hard again already. _Damn_ Sherlock for knowing what he likes, he never even had to say, the man just knew. Typical Sherlock. There was no denying the anticipation of Lestrade walking in on them any time now was keeping him on edge, cock straining against the silky sheets. A conversation the two of them had weeks before flashed through his mind; a threesome.

"Yes, John." Sherlock could see that John understood. "Lestrade will be here in a few minutes." Sherlock stated evenly. He rose to look out the window, standing in front of the cool panes of glass naked as ever, unashamed of his lack of clothing. John had turned his head to admire Sherlock's body lit by the street lamps. So confident, sexy and smart and all his. He couldn't help grinning at that even though the man was the reason for the painful, raging hard-on trapped underneath him currently. The detective's lips took the shape of a sly, sly smile as his gaze moved from the street to John splayed out on the bed. That's when John heard it; the door and then the squeak of the step just before the landing.

"Sherlock?" John froze at Lestrade's voice and Sherlock was by his side immediately, stroking his wet hole, coaxing him to relax again. Their eyes met as Lestrade's footsteps sounded through the kitchen and hallway, getting closer and closer to the bedroom. "John?"

"I love you, John. You're so beautiful. You'll always be mine, just know that, ok? You are mine." Sherlock's lips were close to his ear again, his whispers sending shivers all over his body with tiny kisses, his fingers still working him into a writhing mess.

Lestrade burst into the bedroom, gaining a full view of John Watson stretched out in all directions on Sherlock Holmes' bed. His eyes quickly surveyed the room; he had expected danger and this alternative was not originally an option in his mind, even if he did like it. _Oh. OH!_

"Ah, Gregory, you're here." Sherlock looked up from where his fingers were working at John's ass which had now flushed a satisfying pink colour in embarrassment. "John seems to be in quite the predicament, right John?" John keened loudly in response to a firm stroke to his prostate, his body twisting against his bonds.

Lestrade fell back against the wall in a stupor and gently closed the door with a click, not ever able to go back. Sherlock saw that he was unable to look away from where his fingers entered John, working him open and stretching him wide and she smiled knowingly.

"I see you brought your keys." He indicated Lestrade's pocket with a tilt of his head. When the man nodded that he did have his keys, knowing exactly what was meant by that statement, Sherlock went on. "Leave those on the dresser and come here. John needs some help. The filthy man does love a good cock in his mouth while I fuck him."

* * *

**I love these three together. teehee**


End file.
